


Mistaken Assumptions

by Zeetease



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (not jaskier), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Minor Injuries, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Touching, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Psychological Trauma, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scars, Self-Harm, Self-Worth Issues, Slut Shaming, Somehow, Victim Blaming, hate speech against witchers, i swear this will end happily, no noncon between Jaskier and Geralt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25616107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeetease/pseuds/Zeetease
Summary: Geralt's reunited and (mostly) made up with Jaskier a couple years post mountain. They've only just become more than friends, traveling the Path together.An incident while Geralt's away on a hunt leaves the bard hurt and struggling to keep secrets to protect their fragile relationship. Those same secrets and misunderstandings begin driving a gap between the two as they desperately attempt to salvage the pieces of what they'd built.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 151





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this kinkmeme prompt: https://witcherkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/429.html?thread=219821#cmt219821
> 
> HUGE thanks to my awesome friend Beppi for sanity checks and beta reading
> 
> See End Notes for chapter specific warnings

Jaskier let out a content sigh, leaning back into the luxuriously cushioned tavern chair. He wrapped his fingers around his second mug of hot mulled wine on the table in front of him, basking in the warmth before swirling it to revive the comforting smell of cinnamon and clove. They’d managed to get a perfectly situated table back in a shadowed area. Not only was it at a goldilocks’ distance from the roaring hearth heating the room, but it also allowed Geralt to put his back to the wall and survey the room without being trapped in a corner.

Beside him Geralt echoed the sigh, having drained the last dregs of his own post-meal cider. A ball of sunny contentedness rose into Jaskier’s throat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this genuinely _happy_ , it felt like all the splintering worries that had pained him for so long had been smoothed down while he wasn’t looking.

He turned to the side, just enough to allow him to look at his companion without it being obvious. The Witcher was unfairly, heartbreakingly beautiful in the firelight flickering through the room. The strong angles of his face stood in sharp relief, looking more like a master sculptor’s crowning achievement than a man born from flesh. It lightened his grey hair to a color not unlike creamy clouds right before sunset and ignited his eyes into pools of molten gold. Just as Jaskier’s gaze traveled downwards, unable to resist admiring the leanly muscled throat that disappeared into the signature black armor, those gorgeous eyes flicked sideways.

One eyebrow and the side of Geralt’s mouth crept up slightly, his equivalent of a warm grin. “Done eating?” he asked in a low tone, gesturing to the half-eaten cottage pie sitting in front of the bard.

“Absolutely _not_ ,” Jaskier replied, looping his arms protectively around the dish. “I only just got to the filling, and you _know_ how much I love pie. Never mind that this is the first meat we haven’t had to hunt in months.”  
  
The Witcher’s eyes narrowed playfully at the thinly disguised jab. “Fuck off. Apologized for that pie remark ten times over by now.”

Apology was a bit of a stretch, but at the very least they'd begun to get on the same book - if not the same page - of talking out feelings.

After Geralt hunted him down at the college with a bottle of Jaskier’s favorite wine - Est Est, a Toussaintian Red, both expensive and hard to find - in hand, they’d both sat down and caught up. Like _functional adults_. At first, it’d been like trying to pry teeth from an angry griffin, but it'd smoothed once Jaskier had plied Geralt with a rather extraordinary amount of rum he’d been gifted by a colleague. The professor recently visited Ard Skellige for so called ‘research’. Jaskier was fairly certain that the research focused on how much alcohol one could consume before collapsing face first into a dissertation, but the rum ensured he kept mum on the matter.

Geralt hadn’t apologized until he was roaringly drunk and deep into tales about Ciri, their trek to the Wolf Witchers' home, and the havoc she and Lambert had caused at Kaer Morhen that winter. Then his eyes had seemed to sharpen and sober, and when prodded, he'd muttered how he hadn’t known Jaskier visited Cintra for Cirilla’s name day every year.

Jaskier had flushed at being caught, looking out the window at the budding foliage outside. He waved it off as a coincidence, a long-winded excuse spilling out how he’d always traveled that direction for a bardic contest, so it was just sensible to visit. He could feel Geralt’s heavy gaze on his red cheeks and hid his face in a thin excuse to pour more rum into each of their glasses.

Geralt waited silently for him to finish rambling before quietly adding, “She misses you, wanted to know if you were okay.”

Jaskier’s heart lurched. He couldn’t imagine the pain the girl had gone through. She’d been incredibly clever and spirited when he’d visited, asking for more of his yarns of adventure about the noble but grumpy knight and his witty, handsome, talented minstrel friend. Calanthe had tolerated his visits but always watched with narrowed eyes as he knelt to hold his lute for Ciri to pluck melodies. It was as if she’d expected him to tuck the princess under his arm like a stolen loaf of bread and sprint for the door. He could be _bit_ reckless and had a _marginally_ impaired survival instinct, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. Most of the time.

He raised the tumbler of rum, drinking deeply to avoid responding. It may not have turned out anywhere near expected, but at the very least Ciri was protected and adored. By _many_ terrifying people. Jaskier pitied anyone who even thought of harming her, Yennefer would take great pleasure in painfully transforming them into some creature she could skin and wear as a trophy.

Then, so quietly he’d have brushed it off as a log shifting in the fireplace if he hadn’t seen Geralt’s lips move, “I was worried too.”

Jaskier’s head snapped up wondering if he’d misheard, but the Witcher’s face was unguarded, lips taut and a deep crease between his brows that Jaskier wanted to smooth out with his thumb. He bit back the urge to break the tension with a joke, brushing it off or poking fun at Geralt’s unusual openness. With short careful steps – swaying slightly because he was overcome with emotion, _not_ because he couldn’t handle his drink, thank you kindly Geralt – he sat down next to the Witcher and rested his head on his shoulder.

That admittance had cracked a wall, and through it Jaskier could finally begin an attempt to tunnel through, to meet his Witcher halfway. And _now._ Now they were closer than before. And growing closer.  
  
Jaskier leaned in closer, hot breath brushing teasingly against Geralt’s ear. “I don’t know my dear Witcher. Maybe after my performance I’ll need a bit of filling myself. You can show me just _how much_ you enjoy my show.”

Geralt huffed a laugh through his nose and rumbled out a lilting hum, head swiveling to look down at Jaskier with hooded eyes.

Jaskier tilted his face up a touch. Their lips were inches from brushing, and the bard looked innocently through his lashes as the other’s eyes darkened slightly. One of Jaskier’s hands pushed forward over the table to brace himself as he drifted just close enough to graze their lips together, Geralt’s spiced breath stuttering nearly imperceptibly with the contact. Just as he swayed forward to slide their lips together, Jaskier snapped back into his seat with a short cheer. Triumphantly holding the hollowed crust that Geralt had left on his plate in the air, he smiled back at the disbelieving look sent his way.

Jaskier rolled his eyes dramatically, “Oh stop giving me the wolf-puppy eyes, we _both_ know you only force yourself to eat the crust. Have the honey cake that lovely innkeeper slipped me, in compensation for your _sacrifice_.” He knew the Witcher would never admit it, but he had an enormous sweet tooth that Jaskier rarely got the chance to treat. Too much time spent on back roads and away from the gloriously expansive bakeries of larger cities.

Geralt glared back at the dig, but quickly dropped it in favor of snatching the dessert. With a gleam in his eye he wordlessly pulled over the dish and began picking away at it with a spoon, letting out silent rumbles of pleasure as he savored the sticky cake, licking honey off his spoon between bites.

Returning to his own bowl Jaskier began chattering away about new song ideas between heaping bites piled onto torn pieces of bread crust, Geralt occasionally _hmming_ when Jaskier paused for a response. Jaskier allowed himself to sink back into the uncommon pleasure of a warm drink, full stomach, and sturdy walls. Scraping the last traces of pottage into his mouth, he quickly followed it with the remainder of his wine, enjoying the slight burn and comforting buzz as the effects of the drink built. Delicately wiping the traces from the corner of his mouth, he sucked the tip of his thumb between his lips and moaned indecently, side eyeing Geralt to see his reaction.

The Witcher froze for a millisecond before his spoon carved back into the remaining crescent of cake. “Wasting time you could use to be singing. We’re going to need the coin.”

Jaskier pouted exaggeratedly before groaning and pushing to his feet. “You’re no fun. But you do have a point, I’ll get all the time I want later to _sing_ for you.” He bent over and carefully picked up the lute case slung over the chair back by the strap, swinging it over a shoulder in preparation for his journey through the crowded tavern to the narrow stage at the front of the room. “If I don’t take a break before you leave for your hunt, best wishes with the beast!”

Leaving Geralt with a familiar pat to his arm, he began weaving through the closely crowded room, throwing winks and flirtatious touches to anyone watching. Reaching the front, he swung off the case to extract his lute. Setting the case down at the very front of the short dais, he looped the well-worn strip of leather around his shoulders before plucking away at the strings to tune it as best he could in the noisy room.

Jaskier let the familiar task of tuning and warming up to the back of his mind as he looked back up to see Geralt quickly glance away to pretend he hadn’t been watching. That warm contentedness flooded back into his chest, and he again wondered at how lucky he’d gotten. When they’d separated nearly two years ago now on that cursed peak, he’d thought it was the end of a friendship that had been the backbone of much of his life. It felt more like losing a limb than a friend, unlike any of the other times they’d briefly separated. He’d kept finding himself thoughtlessly spinning to the side asking for an opinion on wording in a rhyme, or to point out a particularly picturesque meadow, only to be greeted by empty air. If he heard a single horse clopping along the road, his heart caught in his throat for a brief second on a stupid wave of hope before falling back deep into his stomach as the rider passed by.

At first he’d thought it a dream when Geralt turned up in his office door at Oxenfurt to invite him back onto the Path together. Jaskier had wintered at the university, performing and teaching classes. As much as it was a nice break from blistered feet, shitty tavern food, and cold nights in the forest, he’d been itching more and more to get back onto the path. Being cooped up during the heavy snow had found him unable to concentrate when reading, longing for a chance to stretch his legs and feel the warmth of the bright sun, to meet new people and hear their stories. He’d kept on singing of Witchers and Geralt’s adventures, but he didn’t take the same joy in it he had before. On the bright side, with war looming on the horizon audiences had a great appetite for tales of woe and longing. Jaskier experienced a resurgence of popularity, although a dip in income as the threat of Nilfgaard caused people to clutch their money pouches a hint tighter.

Shaking away the dark thoughts, Jaskier leapt away from the wall where he had been resting and called through the din of conversation. “Good evening dear madams and masters! I am the acclaimed bard Jaskier, here to entertain and enrapture with tales from all over the Continent.” Swiftly he judged the mood of the audience and began his performance with a popular regional drinking song, skipping and sliding between tables. Coins began clattering into his open case as he segued into newer songs he’d written the past season.

Every so often he spotted a golden gaze trained on him as he made his way throughout the room and peacocked just a bit more as he sung. Jaskier reclined back against a central pole for a chorus, stroked fingers along shoulders, and glanced rearwards to coyly smile at eyes he found fixed on his swaying hips. He was feeling a bit too warm both from the energetic strutting and the drinks he’d been plied with as the afternoon turned into dusk. Taking a brief moment to unbutton his doublet the bard was gratified with increased staring and borderline indecent touches received from the crowd. With the disappearance of any youths that had previously been in the tavern, he decided it was acceptable to delve into some bawdier tunes.

He discreetly made eye contact with the Witcher in his dark space against the wall as he switched into an absolutely _filthy_ shanty Jaskier had picked up last winter, but hadn’t had a chance to perform yet. He saw dark brows raise a few times at the raunchier lines and with confidence (and impish urges) rising he began to move even more suggestively. Jaskier diverted his attention to a table of heavy drinkers that’d contributed a great deal to the coins nearly obscuring the bottom of his lute case. A dark-haired gentleman there had been watching him closely, handsome and well dressed, likely a merchant. Jaskier diverted his route to his seat, brushing gently against his shoulder before making to straddle the bench to the man’s side.

He threw a subtle look backwards to see if Geralt had noticed and felt a surge of joy as he saw the usually grim man fighting a smile. Making to get back to his feet to continue the refrain, he was startled by an arm snaking around his waist to pull him into a lap. Jerking subtly and thrown off balance, he laughed it off and continued to sing as the stranger loosely wrapped his arms around the bard, smirking to the catcalling of his friends. After Jaskier quickly finished up the last section of the song, possibly playing a bit faster than necessary, he announced he was taking a brief break, and twisted around to face the other man. Geralt was facing them from a couple tables behind Jaskier’s new vantage point, his head shaking fondly and lips twitching upwards as Jaskier slowly drew a leg over to straddle the gentleman’s lap.

“Hello there pretty dove,” the stranger said lowly and Jaskier shivered for a second. He’d always had a weakness for low voices, unquestionably part of his attraction to Geralt despite the Witcher’s taciturn ways.

“Why hello. I suppose that makes you the hawk to my dove,” Jaskier rose an eyebrow playfully, “as you’ve captured me.” Sliding the lute around so it rested against his back, he looped his arms around the man’s neck. “May I assume you enjoyed my singing then?”

“I did, though you must be parched after entertaining us all for so long. Perhaps I could offer you a drink, sweet thing? Any preference?”

“Well I certainly would be remiss to decline such generosity. Wine would be lovely, but your name would be an even greater gift.” Just past the man’s ear he caught Geralt rolling his eyes at the flowery flirting but saw no hint of jealousy. The Witcher knew who owned the bard’s heart, and Jaskier fought back a wide grin at the thought.

The stranger grabbed the arm of a serving girl passing by, “I suppose it’s foolish to ask if this hovel carries a bottle of '43 Evreluce? Or any passable red, Est Est perhaps?” At the girl’s hurried assurance that they did in fact have it, he continued, “then fetch a bottle and a couple glasses and put it on my tab.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, “That’s a bit expensive, I didn’t mean to-” he was abruptly interrupted as the other dragged him closer, grip sliding dangerously low from his waist. Jaskier frowned as he saw the young woman rub her arm where the man gripped as she hurried away to fetch the order, but it quickly slipped his mind as he spotted Geralt passing by to exit the tavern. Presumably heading off to prepare for his hunt.

“Don’t be foolish, it’s my pleasure. You look like a man of discerning taste. As for my name-”

He slid off the stranger’s lap to greet Geralt, breaking the tight grasp on his hips and interrupting his sentence. A large callused hand covered the back of his neck for a brief second, tracing a thumb over the silver chain that lead to the skin-warmed charm down his shirt.

“Be careful,” the Witcher murmured as he paused briefly, “shouldn’t be longer than a couple hours before I return.”

“Good luck my dear, I shall await your return with bated breath,” said Jaskier as he beamed up at him. “I’ll likely only perform a touch longer. Oh! And the innkeeper gave us the second room on the left.”

Geralt hummed in acknowledgement before striding away, likely already deep into reviewing his battle strategy for the nightwraith the Alderwoman had tracked to a meadow not far from town.

Jaskier smiled to himself as he swiveled back around to the table, making a mental note to have a bath prepared in time for Geralt to relax and clean off from the hunt and road. A curt cough and a hand sliding beneath his doublet snapped his attention back to his tablemate. “Oh, my deepest apologies, I didn’t mean to get distracted.” he said with a charming flash of teeth, casually scooting back out of reach of the nosy fingers toying with his waistband.

The gentleman smiled tightly. “No matter. I assume that’s the Witcher you glorify in your music?”

“Yes! My dear companion and friend, Geralt of Rivia. Oh, and I’m so sorry again, I don’t think I caught your name?” He resisted the urge to glare at the implied slight to Geralt, better to try and change a bigoted mind, especially this nobleman who had power and opportunity to spread a positive opinion to others.

The man returned to his former easy demeanor so smoothly Jaskier almost thought he’d imagined the frosty tone. “I’ve heard so much about the _handsome_ master bard Jaskier, it’s a great pleasure to meet you and see the rumors weren’t exaggerated in the slightest. I’m Sir Michal Braniecki, of Tretogor.”

At that point the serving girl returned with a pair of pewter tankards and a dusty bottle of wine she quickly wiped clean with her apron. “Here you are milords.”

Michal dismissed her with a brusque flick of his hand and began pouring for each of them. Jaskier’s tankard was considerably fuller and he was already feeling a bit off-balance and edging past tipsy towards drunk, so he decided to nurse it and perhaps return after he finished his set. After a few sips and casual conversation about the variety of Tretogor’s music scene and some of his own songs, Jaskier politely excused himself to play a bit longer before he retired back to his and Geralt’s room.

Back on the stage this time, he played a couple more songs the crowd happily hummed and sang along with, before winding down the mood with some of his more relaxed and poignant music. Taking a couple requests, Jaskier eventually concluded his performance with a haunting love ballad. Packing up his lute, he filled his coin pouch with more silver coins than copper, barely able to cinch it closed. He idly began planning what he and Geralt could buy with the unexpectedly large amount when he was suddenly halted by a large figure cutting into his path.

Startled, Jaskier looked up, “Whoops, pardon me- oh hello again Michal, I hope the rest of the music was to your satisfaction!”

Stepping closer, the man suavely kissed the back of one of Jaskier’s hands before saying, “I couldn’t imagine not enjoying that lovely performance, you truly have an exceptional voice.” He stepped a bit closer, not releasing his hold around Jaskier’s wrist. “I’d bet I could make you sing even more prettily though.”

Chuckling nervously, Jaskier pulled lightly to try and free his hand from Michal’s grip. “I’m incredibly flattered, you truly are too kind. Unfortunately, I’m taken, but thank you sincerely for the conversation. And the drink.”

A thunderous expression flickered across the man’s face so swiftly it could nearly be taken as a trick of the dancing light that illuminated the room. “What a shame, I can’t be surprised such a talented man has a lover. Is the lucky person here with you?” His hand tightened near painfully on Jaskier’s wrist as he drew him back to the table where they’d been drinking.

Dread began to swirl lowly in his belly, this was going unexpectedly downwards, and he was too tired from travelling and performing to fight if this bastard wouldn’t take a no. Not to mention the glowers Michal’s acquaintances had begun to throw his way meant Jaskier would be outnumbered, and he and Geralt would likely have to find new sleeping arrangements for the night. Jaskier decided his best option was to end this conversation as quickly and peacefully as possible. Perhaps a reminder that he had a very strong, very scary-faced Witcher who was very fond of his bard wouldn’t hurt. Jaskier adopted his best grace under pressure smile. “You’ve met him, it’s a bit of a new development but Geralt and I have been involved for months now. Not to mention friends for nearly twenty years prior.”

Michal’s brow furrowed and he sneered, “You’re warming the _mutant’s_ bed? Everyone knows witchers are little more than rabid beasts, after all the Butcher of Bl-”

Jaskier interrupted fiercely, “I’d thank you kindly not to call him that. And Geralt’s no monster, he’s more caring and human than _certain_ _other_ men I’ve had the misfortune to meet.” Yanking his arm from the now bruising grip, Jaskier snatched the bottle of wine from the table with a pointed glare and spun away to find the innkeeper.

He forced his stormy glare down as he stalked through the hallway that connected the tavern to the inn, and found the woman behind the counter there, handing a key to another guest. He again pasted on a bright grin and bowed deeply, “Hello again my beautiful lady! I must commend the delicious meal and superb space to perform. I’d be very happy to come back again if you’d have me. Before I head off, I was wondering if I could have a hot bath sent to my room in a couple hours?”

The woman flushed slightly, between giggles at his heaped compliments she promised him he could return anytime he wanted; they’d be overjoyed to have him perform again, and she’d personally ensure there would be water drawn and heated for the bath.

Jaskier thanked her again before walking in the direction of the rooms, stumbling slightly. He must have drunk more than he realized. Switching hands and almost dropping the wine bottle in the process, he dug the key from his trouser pocket to open the door before closing and locking it. Sighing and rolling his shoulders and back from the ache of holding his lute for hours, he toed off his boots, thankful the floors didn’t possess the horrifying mysterious stickiness present in cheaper inns and taverns. Jaskier moaned with the sheer pleasure of releasing his tender feet from the leather prison.

Rolling out his neck he paced over to the corner, humming idly under his breath as he placed the wine onto the nightstand, hitching the case off his shoulder to gently lay it on the small wooden desk. The bathtub was unexpectedly spacious, a short distance from the hearth to capture residual heat and prevent the water from cooling as quickly. Turning to the plush bed that occupied a good portion of the generous room, he smirked as he remembered the _other_ reason he’d pushed Geralt to choose to a more well-appointed accommodation than their usual camping.

Although he and Geralt had been edging into casual affection, they still hadn’t had a chance to explore the more carnal aspect of their relationship. Sure, they’d made do with hands and mouths, but there was only so far (or so unclothed) one could get in a narrow bedroll. The increasingly chilly weather as autumn advanced into winter certainly didn’t help. Wasn’t very attractive if Jaskier’s teeth were chattering so hard he could almost bite off his tongue. Or, as Geralt pointed out, bite off certain _other_ anatomical parts.

He debated stripping off his doublet and shirt against the mouthwatering idea of getting unwrapped like a present, but perhaps he could give the stubborn bastard a nudge by losing some layers. He decided to compromise, keeping on the unlaced doublet Geralt had unexpectedly gifted him less than a month ago. The fabric was the color of a coursing river right after the spring floods, hemmed with the lacy off-white of froth – Geralt called it blue and gray – and began clumsily unbuttoning his shirt halfway down his chest to give a nice peek of the thick hair that trailed down his torso. Hooking a finger into the chain of the necklace, he palmed the round pendant and admired it yet again. It was a damn close replica of Geralt’s own, except that a buttercup filled the blank space behind the wolf head. The Witcher had repeatedly tried to brush it off as just a defense charm, something to warn Jaskier in case he wasn’t there to protect him, but the bard knew it was much more. Both served as reminders of how much Geralt treasured his company, physical symbols all the more tangible for when he was away on dangerous hunts or fought to find the words.

Eyeing the crisp linens on the bed, Jaskier decided it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared, in case the night headed the way he intended. The saddlebags were slumped on the floor next to the desk, presumably where Geralt had left them before leaving. He rummaged in the ‘bottled liquids – NOT to be consumed’ section of the saddlebags and pulled out vials of what were hopefully scented oil, sniffing each until he found the sweet almond and the lavender. He preferred the rosemary scent for Geralt, but the man always complained that it made him smell like a roast grouse. Jaskier stuffed the others back haphazardly, too fuzzy with drink to do much more, with a slightly guilty vow to reorder the bag later. (That had been one of their discussions, and Geralt did have a good point that mixing the witchery-potions section with the bath-oil-and-perfumes section could drive a dangerous situation downhill. On the plus side _,_ Geralt had smelled _fantastic_ for a week after that particular incident.)

He set the almond oil onto the table next to the bed and the lavender by the bath, contemplating for a moment before adding the ceramic pitcher of water and half-full washbasin next to the crackling fire to warm up. Geralt had a bizarre gift for getting viscera, sticks, mud, sap, basically _anything_ he encountered during a hunt stuck in his hair, and didn't fancy Jaskier's tried-and-true method of splashing it out. It saved a great deal of unknotting and picking on Jaskier’s part and grumbling on Geralt’s if they immediately soaked away as much as possible before it hardened.

Fiddling mindlessly with his fingers while he searched for anything else to keep busy, Jaskier perked up as he heard boots approach down the hall and stop what seemed to be directly in front of the door. It hadn’t felt like it’d been longer than half an hour since Geralt had departed, but perhaps he’d been lucky, and the contract was simpler than expected. Padding over, Jaskier straightened his outfit to teasingly hint at more, hopefully falling towards the ‘sexy’ side of the sexily disheveled spectrum.

Leaning against the wall at one side of the doorway, he unlocked the door and grinned happily, tossing his hair in (what he hoped was) a roguish manner. “Geralt, you work fas-” A familiar figure stood before him and Jaskier stiffened as a cold line grazed his throat.

“Not a sound escapes those pretty lips, or your own mother won’t recognize you.” Michal stood looming, handsome face stony, a stiletto dagger glinting threateningly in one hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cws: Groping, dubcon exhibitionism, catcalling, slurs (towards witchers), alcohol used as a date rape drug, knife, threats
> 
> I have _never_ written anything outside of lab reports and scientific research papers, so hooo boy I hope yall enjoy this ride. It only gets more painful from here.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it really kicks into the cws/tags. _Please_ , take care of yourselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the warnings I can think of are in the end chapter notes, if you're sensitive to anything (including vomit) please check them before reading.  
> It also has a sort of summary of the chapter if you don't want to read but want to know future triggers for Jaskier.
> 
> ONCE AGAIN, ENORMOUS THANKS TO BEPPI FOR LETTING ME MAKE US BOTH SAD

Jaskier froze in place, mind racing as he tried to dredge up any advice thrown his way regarding knife fights. Geralt’s voice echoed in Jaskier’s mind. _If someone has a knife on you do_ not _fight. Delay, agree, pay them coin, wait until I’m there. Barring that, the second you see an opening, run._ Swallowing thickly, his adam’s apple bobbed back against the edge indenting the thin skin. “Michal! Fancy meeting you here, anything I can assist with?” he asked with a crooked smile.

Cold eyes stared back, unblinking and cast black in the hallway’s shadows. “Step back into the room. Don’t try to fight, I’d hate to have to ruin that perfect skin.” Crowding forward, he kept the dagger steady as Jaskier staggered backwards. Michal stepped sideways through the door, twisting the key in the lock and pocketing it.

Jaskier’s heart thudded in his ears, an ache building to squeeze his forehand like an iron band. The surge of adrenaline pierced through the wine induced fog shrouding his brain. He shivered as the room’s temperature seemed to halve itself. Eyes combed as much of the room as possible from his limited vantage point; few worthwhile weapons jumped out at him. The wine bottle wasn’t a terrible option but if he swung hard enough to do damage there would only be a pile of shards left. Geralt hadn’t left his steel sword behind, although even a small blade would- _Jaskier’s boot dagger_! It was a nameday gift after bandits had taken a shine to his lute a few years back. His Witcher had coached him to keep it concealed to prevent unwanted interest.

It hid within the sheath, inside the boots that were partially visible under the bed, far beyond arm’s reach. _Fuck._

“Hey, hey there, there’s no need for any violence.” Jaskier kept his tone light and friendly, only saved from wavering by decades of upholding a performer’s façade. “You’re a reasonable fellow, I’m sure we can talk this out as civilized gentlemen.”

Michal’s lips rose into a tight smile for a brief second and fell just as quickly. “You don’t understand. I’m here to help _you_.” He walked forward another couple steps, trapping Jaskier with one hand clamped on the slope of his upper shoulder and the other bracing the dagger to his jugular. “Unfortunately, it seems you’re too deep under that monster’s spell, so I’m forced into some rather _unrefined_ means of persuasion.”

Closing his eyes and cursing himself, Jaskier wished he’d insisted on joining the hunt. One of the incredibly rare occasions he’d agreed to sit back at the inn, and this happens. Well. If Geralt told him to delay, he’d delay. The last tavern fight had found Jaskier passed out in a pool of his blood and Geralt had nearly come unglued. __The stubborn, self-sacrificing fool had gone mute for the three days they spent at the healer, all the while blaming himself for not getting stabbed in the bard’s place.

“Sure have a peculiar way of helping,” Jaskier said tightly, “but please, I’d be utterly delighted to hear you out.” He gestured to the bottle sitting on the bedside table. “We can sit down over some of that wine you so graciously provided!”

Michal didn’t respond, eyes flickering back and forth over Jaskier’s face as if straining to detect a lie. He took another step forward, Jaskier attempting to keep his distance by retreating but instead thumping into the wall. Michal bent closer. The two were more or less of a height, his lips slotting easily with Jaskier’s in a biting kiss.

Jaskier’s brain stopped in its tracks. Motionless, he stood dumbly, hands raised to shoulder level while Michal forced his tongue past slack lips. Jaskier tasted the floral remnants of the wine they’d drank earlier as a firm thigh pried between his own, tilting upwards against the join of his legs. Sharp teeth nipped his bottom lip, and he dazedly registered the sting of blood welling up.

Michal tipped away for a moment to get a breath and Jaskier hastily broke through his stupor to speak up, “ _Wait_. Wait please, stop. I don’t- I’m sorry, what?!”

“I’m reminding you how a _real_ man feels, you’ve been obsessed with that white-haired freak for so long, I’m sure you can’t recall. After all, you rejected me in favor of that _thing_. Perhaps I can knock some sense into that addled head.”

The bard strained to make sense of this demented logic as the other man returned to possessively exploring his mouth. This bigoted prick wanted to “cure” him of loving Geralt. By forcing himself on Jaskier. And here he stood; cornered, weaponless, with his only ally miles and hours away. Unless he wanted his Witcher to return to a bloody corpse he needed to placate the other man; either talk him out of it or create a distraction long enough to run and find refuge in the crowded tavern. Hopefully Michal’s friends had left, or the people who’d enjoyed the music earlier would protect him.

Making up his mind and swallowing back the lump in his throat at having to betray Geralt, however unwillingly, Jaskier grudgingly reciprocated. Channeling his considerable experience, he set to nipping, sucking, and licking into Michal’s mouth. One hand that had previously been resting stiff and motionless on the other’s shoulder traveled upwards, teasing at the short hairs at the base of his neck, while the other drifted down to lay on the swath of wrinkled silk covering Michal's chest. He could play the seductress. Had done so several times in the past to pull strings with nobility, or when a combination of stingy audiences and hunger drove him to desperate measures.

As soon as Michal once again broke away for air Jaskier caught his breath and spoke, “I’m certainly not adverse to an attempt to be won over, _especially_ by a man as handsome as you.” Dragging his hand down the other’s chest and over the bulge tenting his fine trousers, he squeezed lightly. Groaning, Michal ground his hips into the pressure as the knife finally dipped away from the bard’s throat.

“Well you certainly live up to your reputation,” Michal chuckled, “nearly impossible to find a court without hearing tales of your numerous exploits.”

Jaskier bit back a few choice rejoinders and tilted his head down to hide the sneer forming. He sucked a few teasing kisses down the other man’s jaw, before looking back up archly, worrying his lower lip between his teeth and disguising the wince as he accidentally widened the nick. “Well it’s your lucky day, as we just happen to be in the perfect place for me to demonstrate said experience. With a roaring fire and a large, plush, bed.” Glancing towards said bed in emphasis, Jaskier’s eyes widened minutely as he spotted the boots limp on the floor next to it. His boots. _With his knife._ With a bit of finagling this could work out in his favor, or waste enough time for Geralt to return and introduce this twisted bastard to his steel sword.

Michal leered, spinning the two of them around and sending Jaskier stumbling drunkenly as the room blurred. “Bit of a lightweight, aren’t we? Good thing I’m here to take care of you.” He smirked, clamping down on a shoulder and driving Jaskier inexorably backwards towards the bed.

Jaskier tripped over his own feet, nearly sending them both toppling to the ground before the other heaved him back up to press against the length of his body. He wasn’t a light man, or small for that matter, and manhandling had always sent a scalding flood of lust to his brain in the past. This, however, drained the blood from his face, cold sweat prickling over his back like needles at the show of strength. Resisting the urge to yank away, he plastered on a thankful grin. “Well, you must be my knight in shining armor,” he said, nose grazing the line of other’s jaw. “Won’t you let me show you just how _grateful_ I am? After all, my talented tongue is scarcely limited to singing.”

Michal’s gaze grew impossibly hungrier, Jaskier’s legs buckling under renewed pressure on his shoulder. “My Gods, I knew you were gagging for it from that shameless exhibition earlier, but in front of your supposed _lover_?” He caught some of the weight as the bard kneeled in a fluid movement, muscles loosened with drink. “And now this? You truly are the slut the rumors proclaim.”

Jaskier was long used to much more violent _and public_ ridicule but that still stung. Geralt had borne firsthand witness to the fallout of numerous affairs, but it hurt to think his Witcher might face abuse for a relationship with an infamous philanderer. He wasn’t the type to give a rat’s ass over such petty matters, but Jaskier couldn’t help but wonder if he resented him for it. If it were another stone in the hailstorm of scorn he endured daily. The bard drove it to the back of his mind where it’d surely niggle and itch for weeks.

Looking upwards, he forced himself into the present, where he had a clear goal. The fine weave bunched and smoothed underneath his palms sliding upwards over Michal’s knees. He tried to nudge him to turn and sit, his efforts on the towering figure like a breeze attempting to topple an ancient oak. The man resisted for a moment longer, likely unwilling to relinquish any sort of control.

He cupped the bard’s cheek, thumb stroking along his cheekbone and down to the swell of his lip, pausing at the bead of red. “Oh little bird, you’re hurt.” Perching lightly on the bed, he tipped Jaskier’s head upwards as he swept his tongue along the seam of his lips.

Jaskier’s jaw tensed and his stomach dropped like a fledgling from the nest at the faux kindness. It came too close to emulating genuine care, acting as if he wanted a part in _any_ of this. He leaned out of the embrace, his fingers plucking at the column of buttons lining the placket. Looking through his eyelashes to make deliberate eye contact, he nuzzled the inside of Michal’s thigh with a soft cheek. Woodsy perfume fused with musk to fill his nose, much better than the stale scent of piss and unwashed flesh he'd often encountered. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the gleam of Michal’s dagger, forgotten, back on the coverlet out of easy reach from where Jaskier knelt between the other’s spread thighs. The bard reached into the gap and wrapped a hand around Michal’s rapidly thickening length.

Tonguing delicately at the flushed head, he allowed it to slide deeper into his mouth, freeing a hand to rest in his lap as the other braced on Michal’s thigh to steady his efforts. Usually he’d palm himself, play into the pretty picture he knew he made on his knees. Now, it allowed him to edge towards the weapon mere inches away. Pushing forward, Jaskier gagged, eyes scrunched tightly before he forced them back open, now glistening with tears.

Michal hushed him, brushing away the moisture smeared underneath as he cooed, “Oh, _easy_ darling, no need to strain yourself. I know just how badly you want this, and I fully intend to give it to you. Please, let me look after you.”

Jaskier ignored the bitterness rising in his throat at the sickly-sweet words, humming as if in acknowledgment. Pulling back, he laved along the blood-hot underside, causing the other to throw his head back at the sensation. Taking quick advantage of the break in attention, Jaskier subtly stretched his fingers to the boot’s mouth, praying that this was the right one. The ridged hilt grazed his searching hand, eyes studying Michal’s face for any signs of suspicion. Jaskier moaned – as if he could take any pleasure from this – to cover the rasp of metal as it smoothly drew away from the sheath. His heart thundered against his ribs as hope rose white hot in his chest, nearly dizzy with relief.

Michal’s hooded gaze narrowed as he noticed the arm leading between Jaskier’s legs. “Ah-ah-ah, no touching yourself,” he tutted. A firm grip pulled the bard back by the hair, and the hilt slipped from Jaskier’s tenuous hold. Both men stared dumbly, blinking as it clattered to the floor between them.

Jaskier came to his wits first, powered by the ice water resurging through his veins as he fell back onto his arse and kicked away to get room. Stumbling up to his feet, he dipped dangerously as he raced to the door. Twisting the knob, he shouldered through the open- the door. Wouldn’t. Budge. Jaskier fought it frantically, yanking back and forth as ice coursed down his spine.

From his position on the bed, Michal lifted a brow before rising gracefully. Tucking his cock back into his pants, he prowled over to where the bard cowered into the corner next to the door. “Darling. If you keep acting up I can only assume that you’re being a spoiled brat to provoke me. Just let yourself enjoy what I give you.”

“Fuck you, you whoreson, I want no part of this!” His voice cracked midway through, terror peeking through the gaps. He crowded further against the wall as if he could phase though with enough effort.

“Oh is that so?” Michal asked, looking as if Jaskier had told a fine joke. “You’re still clinging to your bizarre delusion of loyalty to that killer.” His mouth twisted, spitting out the words as if they soured his mouth. He seized the nape of the bard’s neck, propelling him back to the bed, kicking the abandoned dagger out of his path.

Jaskier didn’t attempt to fight back, mind blank and dread a vise around his lungs. Pliable as a doll, his hipbones contacted the edge of the mattress as he bent over to lay on his front. The silver chain bit harshly into the soft flesh under his jawline as Michal wrapped it around his fist. Air couldn’t pass the obstruction, haze growing until he felt as if he were watching his body struggle from across the room.

“I don’t want to use force. Just _behave_.” He cupped Jaskier’s soft prick, massaging it before releasing the chain to flip him onto his back. Ripping through the remaining buttons on the bard’s shirt, he spread it out beneath him like a tablecloth.

Jaskier’s wits trickled back as broad hands followed the trail of downy hair along his abdomen, he shivered at the unwelcome touch, feeling as exposed as a raw nerve. Every inch of skin seemed to triple in sensitivity at the increased awareness. “No, please… _don’t,_ please stop,” he murmured though trembling lips, numb hands rising to push away strong arms. “I don’t want- please just- _don’t do this_.” Voice wavering and hoarse, an inhale nearly became a sob.

Lip curled, Michal combed his fingers through the fall of hair veiling one of Jaskier’s eyes from view. “It hardly suits you to play the innocent. Little dove, not a soul in that tavern would believe you want anything less; you were begging to be pinned down and mounted. I doubt that brute will take offense someone had a turn with his toy, he hardly cared earlier as you rode me like a whore.”

Trapping a soft lobe between his teeth, he nibbled along the curve before leaning back to speak directly into the bard’s ear, “Need be, I’ll pay him off; everyone knows Witchers value coin above all else. I’m going to make you feel so good, you’ll forget you ever laid with that monster.” Gaze drifting downwards, he finally caught sight of the red bruises and bite-marks decorating Jaskier’s collarbones and shoulders. “Melitele, what has he done to you?” Michal sounded as if a favorite plaything had been scuffed. He pressed soft lips to each mark, muttering about how he would never treat the bard so callously.

Bile rose threateningly in Jaskier's throat, tasting vaguely of his dinner. He couldn’t pretend this was Geralt. Everything felt wrong; caresses smooth rather than scratchy with calluses, and pricey cologne replaced the comforting scent of horse and fresh herbs. The flash of light on glass caught his eye, and he turned his head in vacant curiosity. Michal thumbed the cork from a familiar bottle of oil as the fruity aroma of almonds permeated the room.

“Look at you, thinking ahead, preparing to be fucked. And this oil! High quality and difficult to come by, you certainly have fine taste.”

Narrow hips spread Jaskier’s legs, as his trousers and smallclothes were unfastened and rucked down to his knees. Michal stood tall at the foot of the bed, consideration turned to the rich wool doublet low on Jaskier’s forearms. It was next to be cast away to the side of the bed, the thin linen shirt beneath pulled down to trap his arms behind his back. A broad, slick hand wrapped around Jaskier’s limp cock and he twitched from the unexpected sensation. Lids shut as Jaskier tied to regain that fuzzy distance from what was happening to his body. Curiously, it seemed almost dreamlike. As if he floated far enough away he’d wake up back in his cozy bedroll, muscular arms encircling his waist and banked campfire popping a few feet away.

He was torn from the scene as an alien feeling broke through the cloud protecting his mind. Coming back, he found himself bent over the side of the bed. Jaskier groaned lowly at the dull pain prodding repeatedly between his legs. Focusing, he heard Michal speaking in a low murmur.

“My sweet, just relax. Relax and open up for me.”

The pressure transformed into a sharp stretch. Jaskier reflexively breathed through the stinging, willing himself to loosen unfamiliar muscles lest they be torn. He hadn’t performed this specific act for several years, in recent months saving himself for when they finally arrived at an inn.

“You’re unbelievably tight, the Witcher must prefer your mouth hm?” Michal tutted, gently spreading two fingers in an attempt to reduce the no doubt tight squeeze. More oil dribbled onto Jaskier’s hole and down the inside of his thighs, warm on his chilled skin. Fingers continued sliding in and out of his hole, one more added before angling against his inner walls.

An unwelcome heat began to pool in Jaskier’s stomach between the friction of his cock against the bed cover and the fingertips rubbing insistently inside of him. Jaskier buried his face against the covers in fervent shame as he realized he was getting off on his own violation. His traitorous prick had begun leaking steadily when the stretch inside his arse abruptly disappeared. Raising his head and blinking blearily, Jaskier peered over his shoulder just in time to see Michal oil his hard cock and press it to his entrance. Mouth opening to plead, he whined lowly at the thick intrusion forcing into his body. It filled him, pressing the delicate flesh taut, stinging and burning as it opened him up. Jaskier clenched down around it in shock, instinct wrestling the experience telling him to stop the futile resistance to prevent horrible, splitting pain running up his spine like lava.

“Gods _yes_. Even better than I expected,” he growled, clutching Jaskier’s hips and beginning to thrust.

The bard’s head fell between his braced forearms, trying to resist the pleasure building as the invasion continued to grind against his sensitive prostate. Each thrust rolled his hips down into the blanket and Jaskier teared up, muffling moans into his forearms as his cock throbbed. It felt as if it had a life of its own, Jaskier cursed his lack of control as it hardened fully.

Throaty groans played through the room, Michal broadcasting his enjoyment. “You take it so beautifully my dove, so pliant and good for me, such sweet noises.”

The pace quickened, hips slapping into Jaskier’s arse and large palm pinning him between the shoulder blades as Michal brushed kisses to the side of his neck. Doing his best to resist the urge to rock back into each thrust, he tried to channel up the least arousing mental images possible. He paged through memories of monster innards, sheer cliffsides, the time he’d walked in on a faculty orgy at Oxenfurt.

“I swear to all the Gods, you were made just for this.” Michal shoved forward one last time before stiffening, pulsing preceding a warm surge inside Jaskier's arse. Collapsing onto the bard’s back, the man panted against the nape of his neck, carding a hand almost lovingly through the soft brown hair. Jaskier inhaled shakily, trapped under the weight, the perfume of almonds drifting from the sweaty, oily hand stoking down his shoulder.

Flaccid cock withdrawing, Michal pushed to his feet. He rolled Jaskier to face upwards, staring blankly at the ceiling, calves dangling from the bed. “Better hole than any I’ve paid for and some were _quite_ expensive.” Frowning, Michal eyed Jaskier’s still-hard cock resting against his stomach. “I didn’t mean to leave you unsatisfied, how rude of me.”

Hand slick, he fisted the thick length and stroked. Twisting slightly at the top of the movement, Jaskier gasped as a hot mouth encased the tender head and tongued at the underside. Jerking, he moaned as he came, white spurting across Michal’s knuckles as his mouth rose to cover Jaskier’s, kiss-swollen and red. Falling back onto the bed, his shoulders throbbed as the twisted fabric of his shirt wrenched them backwards.

Michal bent to pick up the abandoned doublet from the floorboards, mopping away the remnants of Jaskier’s spend from his hand before casually wiping the mess from each of their spent cocks. Jaskier hissed out a lungful of air as the fabric grated against his oversensitive cock, nearly doubling over at the pain.

“You were _lovely_ , if you come to your senses about trailing the Witcher like a puppy, please feel free to drop by my estate north of Tretogor.”

The muted clink of metal drew Jaskier’s glassy attention to the side table, where a lone gold coin now rested. Easily equal to the sum Jaskier had made earlier.

“Payment for services rendered. Should the Witcher take offense at sloppy seconds you can toss a coin his way.”

The door clicked shut behind him. Jaskier stayed where he’d been discarded, thinking of nothing, arms slowly growing numb beneath his prone form. Wetness seeped from between his cheeks, dampening the bedcover.

The soothing trance gradually ebbed away, leaving him isolated and chilled. Sitting up, Jaskier took stock, eyes darting over the room illuminated by the orange glow of the fireplace.

The soiled doublet, the empty vial on the bedside table. The only signs that Jaskier hadn’t dreamt it all up.

Pushing to his feet, he painfully shrugged the bunched fabric up his buzzing forearms to hang loosely on either side of his torso. Staring down the length of his body, his trousers and smallclothes lay crumpled, circling his ankles like manacles. He stood there gawkily, like a newborn foal, blinking at them. Suddenly his hands shot downwards, jerking unevenly, frantically, to yank the pants up to cover his legs. They resisted, catching painfully, at last resting to cover his hips, buttons jammed through their corresponding slots.

Skin prickling with drying sweat, Jaskier continued to stand dumbly in place.

The heated air burned against his suddenly freezing face.

He breathed, uncomfortably aware of how each draw inwards scraped the raw interior of his windpipe.

Despite the protection of his clothing he still felt laid bare; gutted and filthy like field-dressed game.

Stooping to retrieve his doublet – bending at the waist before flinching and crouching instead – he mechanically folded the item before burying it deep in his satchel.

Nausea crushed his middle like an overripe fruit. Hunched over, one hand clamped to his mouth, he lurched towards the earthenware chamber pot. As he heaved tears sprang to his eyes, acid burning up his throat. The bitter stench of vomit swirled together with that of musk and sweat sent Jaskier’s head reeling.

He retched over and over until his stomach was completely empty, and even then he continued dry heaving, sobbing to catch his breath. His nose plugged from tears, finally shutting out the disgusting odor. As the cramping died down, he dangled limply over the pot, scrubbing the moisture from his cheeks with the crook of one arm. Jaskier fell back onto his arse, probably bruising his tailbone in the process.

He imagined the pitiful sight he made like this; he hadn’t been this sick since a horrific combination of flu and hangover back in his first year of university.

He sat there for what could have been a minute or an hour, coming back to himself in bits. Scooting backwards, away from the stinking chamber pot, Jaskier’s shoulder bumped into the base of the desk chair behind him. Levering himself up, he sat stiffly in the chair, arms hanging from his sides.

The strap of his lute case dangled down from the edge. Without thinking, he pulled it to cradle in his lap like a newborn babe, serving to cover his vulnerable underbelly. It was a vague sort of comfort, a shield between him and the yawning pit of anguish stretching out before him.

A cheery, high-pitched voice called through the door, followed closely by several rapid taps to the thick wood. Jaskier stared, eyes wide as cornered prey, blunt edges of his lute now cutting painfully into his chest. The brass knob caught the light as it turned. Peeking through the gap, much lower than he expected, was the smiling face of a young girl.

“Oh, hello there master bard! I’m just here with your bathwater.” She tottered back and forth from the hallway, bucket splashing as she hoisted it to tip over the edge of the tub. Hot water crashed down in miniature waterfalls, lightly clouding the room with humidity.

Jaskier snapped back into coherent thought, rushing over to help the small child with the buckets that nearly matched her in weight. She curtsied sweetly as she went to leave, and Jaskier stopped her with a soft word. He waved his hand at the side table and its gold coin, “Please.”

The girl beamed in thrilled disbelief, snatching it up to hide in a hidden skirt pocket, curtsying repeatedly as she backed out the door.

Suddenly she was gone, door shut once again, tub full and gently wafting steam.

Jaskier leaned his forehead against the silky wood, fingers cramping in a death grip around the key. Shivering, he withdrew it from the slot, rattling the door to ensure it was locked, and lobbed the key onto the bed. He stopped dead as he noticed the palm-sized stain inches away. Whipping away, eyes unseeing, he refocused on the two-thirds full wine bottle. He clutched it by the neck, gulping until no more ran out and tasting none of it. Slamming it back down on the table he turned towards the bath.

It was for Geralt. Yet the Witcher was still out on his hunt, possibly until dawn if the wraith played hard to get. For a brief moment he considered venturing out after him, but the mere thought of running into Michal in the tavern – _or outside at night_ – very nearly sent him sprinting back to the chamber pot.

He imagined Geralt returning to find him like this. Reeking of sex, vomit, and alcohol, traces of each on his wrinkled clothes. Disgusting and worthless, nothing like the powerful, flawless sorceress he’d chosen over him time and time again.

At the very least he could start to clean up. Put his back into mucking out this shit situation, that way Geralt and his enhanced nose wouldn’t have to stomach what happened in their own room, Jaskier covered in another man’s scent – and seed. Particularly after a hunt, one that lasted the entire night on top of it all. He’d be exhausted and hungry as hell, this could wait until he was rested and in a better mood. Privately, in the back of his mind, Jaskier added _that way he wouldn’t immediately snap and send him away, that way this wouldn’t be the breaking point in their already fragile relationship._

Shivering, he began shedding his clothes, flinging them into a pile to be washed. Clenching his bar of perfumed soap and a rough washrag, he began scouring himself clean, generously lathering up to take advantage of the strong lavender scent. Between bouts of scrubbing the phantom touches away, he dumped half the vial of matching oil into the bath to overpower any scent remaining in the dirtied water.

Catching briefly on the silver chain circling his neck as he moved to scrub his back, Jaskier choked at the pull, stopping to stare unseeingly into the foamy water. Dropping the cloth with a muted splash, he shakily unclasped it before flinging the necklace into the pile of clothes off to the side.

Every inch still felt coated in filth despite his sore, red raw skin, so he continued to harshly rub the cloth over his arms, chest, throat, and between his cheeks to clean away the oil and fluid that felt embedded into his very being. Finding more traces inside he gritted his teeth and pushed in a couple of fingers to try and scoop out the mess, tears running down his face at the searing humiliation of the act but insisting to himself it had to be done.

The frenzy died out, a bonfire reduced to embers, logs crumbling to black shells of their former selves. His jaw shuddered uncontrollably, chattering his teeth together in a staccato beat. The bath had gone from near boiling to glacial and his body was trembling. He lurched out, wrapping himself tightly in the provided towel as he dug through his bag to find a change of clothes. He didn’t bother to check they matched before shoving his limbs through, seams strained at the lack of care.

Balling up the stained blanket, he shoved it under the bed with a pang of guilt for whoever cleaned the room. The thin sheets beneath lay crisp and white like an untouched field of snow. He considered it for a moment – his exposed skin resembled a plucked pheasant at this point – instead settling back in the desk chair to pillow his head on his songbook and wait for Geralt’s return.

If he broke out his bedroll Geralt would surely know something was wrong and investigate. Better to play it off as Jaskier falling asleep over a bout of composing, trying to stay up waiting for the Witcher to return. He briefly considered draping Geralt’s cloak over himself, but if he smelled the other man and ripped it off of him- he was fine, the room wasn’t that cold.

Eyelids heavy as stone, he allowed them to drift down... _just for a moment_. When he cracked them open again the sky was painted in heavy strokes of red and orange, the blinding circle of the sun had just cleared the horizon.

His eyes were puffy and tender, aching from crying. He must look an absolute mess. Stretching in the chair, he took stock of the various pains riddling his body. Somehow, Jaskier felt even worse than he had last night; mouth dry, soft light piercing into his brain, nothing in his stomach to throw up despite the returned nausea, his skin grating raw against his clothes, even his ass was sore now – in an immensely wrong way, leaving him twinging with terrible reminders.

Sight blurred with sleep, Jaskier swiped it away before looking around, heart in his throat, not sure which option would hurt more. He swallowed the lump that abruptly rose before checking again, hoping against hope. The room was empty. Geralt’s saddlebags still lay limp at Jaskier’s feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and sidenote, please let me know if you like the length of the chapters or if you feel it drags on a bit, I'm hella longwinded
> 
> CWS: Michal has a knife, threatens Jaskier with it.  
> Slut shaming  
> Racism against witchers  
> Michal acts as if he's righteous in this.  
>  **EXPLICIT** rape  
> Jaskier is moderately drunk  
> Trapped/locked in a room unwillingly  
> Choked with a necklace chain (momentarily)  
> Jaskier freezing, not actively resisting against nonconsensual advances (this does not mean he deserved or invited it so help me)  
> Jaskier's body is forced to respond, he climaxes  
> Jaskier gets nauseous and throws up  
> Cleaning aftermath of rape, slight self harm overcleaning skin
> 
> That's about all I have! If there's anything else someone would like warned or tagged, please let me know


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt head to the market.  
> (A brief break before the pain returns)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI HI THERE I'M ALIVE  
> Since the last update I had: Classes start, my cat knock water onto and therefore kill my laptop, I broke the replacement laptop's spacebar trying to get it unstuck, I spilled water onto the new laptop myself, my house partially flooded from a broken toilet, an outdoor cat bit my hand and it swelled up like a balloon, the second moving truck came and I had to unpack.  
> It's been a clusterfuck. Thanks to beppi and chamyl for keeping me sane 
> 
> Chapter applicable warnings in End Notes as always!

Jaskier didn’t remember much of his journey out of the inn, only granting the cheery innkeeper a nod to her offer of emptying the bathtub and shake of the head at her inquiry if they’d stay another night. Standing in the dirt-turned-mud from yesterday’s freezing rain, he took a moment to ensure he had his knife, coin purse, and room key out of pure reflex before hurrying on his way, shivering slightly in the morning’s cold.

Stepping quickly and not bothering to dodge stepping in the worst filth that tended to line town streets, the bard circled the building over to the stables that dominated the side street. Almost running as the fear clenched its fist around his lungs, he pushed through the thick doors guarding the stable entrance. He spun twice before spying the familiar white-streaked brown face peering at him from a corner stall, chewing contentedly on a mouthful of dried grass.

Tears threatened to fill his eyes in relief and Jaskier stumbled over, soreness weighing down his limbs as the rush of adrenaline drained away. The familiar scent of hay and horse filled the air and he trembled as his body finally registered the warmth enveloping him. Roach shoved him with her head as soon as he was in range. He stuttered out a choked laugh, absorbing the push and stroking a hand behind her jaw and down her satiny neck.

He scooped a handful of loose hay from the stable floor, offering it up to placate Roach’s huffs at the lack of his usual bribes. “You’d never believe how happy I am to see you, dear.” The horse snuffled at his hand, looking for more treats, before shifting her attention to nibble at his hair. He laughed lightly in return, dipping away from her dogged attempts to make him bald before his time, “At least I know he wouldn’t leave you behind. Any idea where our Witcher is at?”

Petting her for a minute longer, he allowed his frantic heartbeat to slow down to a slightly more normal pace before leaving her with a quick kiss to the forehead - dodging the headbutt with practiced ease - and another handful of scavenged hay.

He almost wanted to stake out her stall, that way he could be sure Geralt wouldn’t sidestep him. On the other hand, Jaskier couldn’t take the chance that the stubborn grump was lying injured in a field, meditating until he had the energy to limp back. He’d be vulnerable to any malicious passerby and it always made Jaskier sick with worry when he was hours - if not days - late. It was the primary reason he usually insisted on accompanying Geralt on hunts, although the lurid details for songs were a great bonus. As was getting to see the Witcher in action; the man was a force of nature, seeing him in action took the bard’s breath away.

Walking back out into the unrelenting chill, Jaskier ignored the moisture seeping through his stockings as the mud won out against his hastily patched soles. The fresh air soothed the throbbing band around his skull, and he pressed a cool hand to his forehead, drinking in the relief. Striding purposefully through the cobblestone streets, he weaved through the sparse crowd of tradespeople headed to set up their stalls for the market celebrating the autumnal equinox.

The yeasty smell of bread fresh out of the oven, evident of bakers’ labor kneading and shaping since the dead of night, warred against the stink of crowded humanity that always accompanied the larger villages. His stomach rumbled in hungry protest but Jaskier spared it no thought as he worked to backtrack to where they had met the Alderwoman the day before. He was scanning both sides of the street, looking for the man’s house when his attention snagged on a shaggy grey head of hair as familiar to Jaskier as his own lute. Nearly tripping over himself in his excitement, he didn’t notice Geralt's forcefully blank expression until he’d stopped in front of the Witcher.

“Geralt! My gods man, where have you been?” Jaskier halted in front of him, hands fluttering ineffectually in the air over the pristine armor before settling to cross tightly over his own chest. Looking up, the bard finally realized where they were standing, dangling strands of herbs and various potted plants clearly signaling the combined home and storefront of a healer.

Geralt's head had snapped up from where he was studying the filthy cobbles, flickers of unreadable emotion travelling over his face and a single hand twitching forward to reach for the bard before it fell back to his side. “Jaskier.” His voice ground to a halt, even rougher than usual, as if two enormous millstones had jammed together.

“Geralt,” Jaskier started carefully, doubt coloring his tone, “why are you at the healer? I’ve never seen you voluntarily seek one out short of your own impending _demise_ , are you hurt? I don't see any blood, _please_ Geralt tell me what happ-” Geralt seized the bard’s wrists as he renewed his search, running back over every inch of the leather armor, breath quickening as he pictured all the worst injuries the Witcher had suffered on hunts.

“Jaskier. Calm down. I’m fine.”

Huffing dramatically, he allowed his hands to relax in the callused grip. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t quite take your word for it, your definition of fine has included _fractured_ _bones_ in the past.”

Geralt's brows creased together as his nostrils flared, dismissing the line of questioning to introduce his own. “You look like shit. Hangover? And why do you smell like you robbed a florist?”

Mouth opening and closing like a dying fish, Jaskier’s pulse thrummed in his ears as he weighed his options. “I’m fine, spilled a vial in the bath. But I asked first, why are you _here_?” Eyes flickering carefully over Geralt's face, Jaskier worked to keep any emotion out of his voice as he continued, “Did something happen on the contract? I thought you were only to be gone a couple hours.” He nearly flinched as he remembered his own self-assurances of Geralt's speedy return just a few hours ago. Jaskier threw even more energy into the happy-go-lucky front. “To be honest, I didn’t know your face could achieve this level of ‘ _fuck off I’m a scary Witcher and would rather rip your throat out with my teeth than talk to you_ ’, it’s impressive, you should teach a glowering master class.”

Geralt's lips firmed to a harsh line. “I -” His face crumpled for a second, teeth clenching and cheek ticking. “I almost killed a child.”

Jaskier paused, reevaluated. Ran the response back through his mind once again. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do.” He moved to lay a gentle hand on Geralt's shoulder, retracting it wordlessly at the subtle balk, ignoring the responding dull wrench in his heart. “We’re going to go inside and have you checked over, possibly for a head injury, and you’re going to tell me the story.” Pushing through the door he embraced the spiced, medicinal smell of the plants and healing concoctions crowding every level surface inside, candlelight and a low hearth casting the scene in a wavering orange warmth.

Geralt frowned thunderously, following reluctantly, bracing as if he expected to be slapped. “ _Bard_ , I’m not hurt.”

The Witcher became a statue and Jaskier nudged futilely for a moment before heaving a sigh and turning back to find the healer. The sight that greeted him drew a bright smile to his face and he immediately abandoned his attempts to budge Geralt, rushing forward, hands flying like birds flushed from a bush.

“Hello there! What’s your name?”

Beaming at the round face peering up from the corner cot, Jaskier plunked himself firmly on the floor in front of it, hissing almost inaudibly as the new position awoke lingering soreness. Geralt's face creased in confusion in the corner of Jaskier’s vision and the bard nearly broke into a cold sweat, sending a tight smile towards the Witcher before turning to the new face.

The child blinked dazedly before returning the grin tenfold. Pushing their chin length hair out of their eyes, they offered a small hand to shake Jaskier’s offered one. “M’name’s Rowan, but you can call me Ro.” They leaned forward to stage whisper into Jaskier’s ear, “ _are you th’white wolf’s bard?_ ”

Jaskier twisted around in surprise to see Geralt's reaction but the Witcher was still crowded next to the entrance, body language as welcoming as a cornered wolf. Burying his worry, he turned back to little Ro. “Why yes I am, I don’t even have my lute, how’d you know?”

They smiled even harder, “He was telling me ‘bout you earlier, when he was carrying me back.”

He tried to shoot Geralt a shit-eating grin but the Witcher was looking off somewhere in the middle distance, oblivious to their conversation. Spying a white bandage under the messy hair and another around the child’s ankle, Jaskier’s attempt to solve the mystery was interrupted as an unfamiliar voice cut in.

“Ah I’m glad to see that Witcher finally came in from the cold.” Bustling in, the man wound around to hand Ro a mug of fragrant steaming tea before commanding them to sit back against the wall. “And I suppose you’re Jaskier? He mentioned you might be around before long.”

The newcomer strongly resembled Ro, much taller and with much shorter hair, but undoubtedly a relative.

“I can’t thank you enough, Witcher.” The healer continued to mother hen the child, wrapping homemade afghans around the slight form and casting shadows into each eye to evaluate the dilation. His sharp eyes fixed on Jaskier, “I assume he hasn’t told you what happened with my son? Certainly isn’t the most talkative fellow.”

Snorting unbecomingly, Jaskier lurched to his feet. “Believe me, I know. But no, I’m completely in the dark, I don’t suppose you could clear things up?”

The healer shook his head good naturedly, forehead relaxing from concerned lines as he concluded Ro was as well as could be expected. “Your friend saved my Ro from the monster that’s been hurting travelers for months.” He stared sternly at the child as he continued, “And since _Rowan here_ decided to follow him out to watch the battle, we’re damn lucky that a bump on the head and a sprained ankle are all that happened.”

Ro looked suitably chastened, pouting into the mug in between sips, eyes turned downward in shame. “Just w’nted to see.”

“And how well would that have turned out if he hadn’t noticed you were there-” Cutting his rant off he turned a strained smile at the visitors, handing off a heavy purse, “Here, a few crowns in thanks that your silent friend tried to leave here, plus the Alderwoman dropped off quite the reward for the job. I’ve got a few orders to take care of before the market, but you two are welcome to stay as long as you like.” Turning the concerned glare back onto the child, he commanded Ro to try and sleep before retreating to his crowded work area.

Jaskier blinked. It felt as if a hurricane in human form had passed through the room. If that was Ro’s father, it was no wonder they were already a handful. Geralt now stood a foot or so closer, nearly within arm reach but still resolutely keeping his distance despite the cramped room.

Ro rose from their feigned sleep, snapping back to attention, blankets sliding off as they sat ramrod straight. “M’ gonna be like you, y’know. Gonna go on adventures and save people and write songs.”

Affection surged in Jaskier’s chest, children were often entranced by Geralt, the horse and armour and swords, but outside of listening to the bard’s music they had little to no interest in his profession. “Well you know what that means.” Jaskier adopted his most serious expression, channeling Geralt, “You’ve got to listen to him, and stay out of trouble. Can’t go on adventures if you’ve been eaten by a monster before your tenth nameday, can you?”

Ro scowled in response, but grudgingly nodded their head.

“Now, you should follow his advice and sleep, it’s one of the best ways to grow up strong and healthy.” Jaskier shot Geralt a pointed look at this and received a huffed laugh before he hummed in agreement. The tension in his shoulders seemed to have lessened slightly, and Jaskier felt his own lower in response. “We’ve got to go but promise me the next time you’ll at the _very_ least tell your father where you’re going before you run off.”

“Promise.”

He exchanged a stone-faced handshake to seal the deal, waving and bidding the healer farewell as he and Geralt trod back out onto the considerably busier street.

They walked side by side, people clearing out of the Witcher’s way, awed expressions and whispers following in their wake. Tales of the child’s rescue must have already begun spreading through the town. Winding back through the streets they ended back at the stables within minutes, where Jaskier called Geralt to a halt with a soft word, retreating into the cozy structure.

Jaskier paused; arms hugging himself, quickly dismissing the nagging thought that this would be a good time to tell Geralt what happened last night. Focusing on his surroundings to center himself he breathed deeply to calm his drumming heart before Geralt picked up on his unease. “Tell me Geralt, are you alright? I don’t think I’ve seen a contract get to you like this in years. And you saw Ro, hardly an unhappy ending there, they’ll be recovered and terrorizing their father again in a few days if that.”

The Witcher’s mouth tightened as if physically holding back a retort. He seemed on the verge of saying something before sighing and shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter,” Geralt muttered.

Eyes scouring his face for any tell, Jaskier nodded, mentally noting to bring it up at a better time. “Well I’m sure you’re tired and hungry, you could take a brief rest in th-” Images of the disarray left in their shared room flashed through his mind, the clothes, the stains, the stinking chamber pot, the cloying sweetness of lavender that had drowned out everything else, the stained bed, _his face pushed into the blankets_. He abruptly changed course, “ _or_ we could head to the market to eat and stock up on supplies, there’s a few things we’ve been needing for a bit, in fact that’s the much more _efficient_ option, let’s head there now before they sell out of… cabbage aaand… yarn. Hop to old man, off we go!”

Striding off purposefully, he spun smartly to switch directions as Geralt nodded the opposite way towards the market plaza, the remnants of his much too blank expression fading to the ghost of a smile shadowing his lips as he fell in alongside Jaskier.

The gathering crowds of people condensed alongside the din of background conversation, livestock, sellers pitching their wares, and fierce negotiations as hagglers tried to eke out a bargain. Jaskier’s worries momentarily flew from his mind as he drank it all in, the usual dull, dusty earth tones of the city had acquired a wash of color and glitter, as if a rare mineral had been unearthed.

He had lost himself among the stalls draped with rich fabrics and warm winter clothing when it occurred to him that he should probably buy his _own_ cloak.

For that matter, depending on the conversation about last night Jaskier might need his own bedroll rather soon, no matter how his throat clenched at the thought. He’d been sharing with Geralt, neither complaining when the cooling nights forced them increasingly closer to conserve heat.

It’d begun fairly platonically, entering the night lying side by side, perhaps a foot apart. By the time the sun cast inescapable spears of light through Jaskier’s eyelids he was securely wrapped around the other, not unlike a strangler fig. In more symbiotic terms, it worked quite well; Jaskier was a sleeping human furnace and Geralt a heatsink as his low metabolism prioritized energy conservation over comfort. It was logical, more energy efficient to sleep together than apart.

Of course, any attempts to joke that Geralt only kept him around for his body were swiftly met with judicious use of absolutely fucking _freezing_ hands and face applied to Jaskier’s bare neck.

Despite Geralt's sensible arguments – which were all justifications to himself, Jaskier was hardly going to refuse – he _knew_ the Witcher enjoyed it beyond mere body warmth, and not only for the more intimate perks. They each suffered from nightmares, images seeded from the cruelties present on the Path. Waking with adrenaline surging and heart hammering was much more bearable with a companion to soothe and hold until sleep’s veil dropped once more.

Of course, that arrangement only came about after Jaskier’s bedroll had mysteriously disappeared, the bard writing it off as left at some inn or another. He’d later stumbled across a few rags and bandages in their stock that bore a _suspicious_ resemblance, and Geralt was silent when questioned.

A flicker of happiness lit Jaskier up at the thought, extinguished quickly as a voice that far too closely resembled his own whispered _Geralt wouldn’t want to touch him now_. Now that he was damaged, sullied, an unfamiliar over-awareness sparking along his skin and arcing into fear whenever a person unexpectedly brushed against him in the throng.

Suddenly much too hemmed in by the mass of humanity, a feeling he’d never experienced before, he whipped around to search for his Witcher before he spotted him no less than a few steps away, relief rushing through the bard. Geralt was frowning – his baseline state really, heaven knows how he didn’t have permanent lines like roads had cartwheel ruts – rubbing a fine bolt of crimson silk curiously between thumb and forefinger. He looked up at the weight of Jaskier’s gaze and raised an eyebrow in question.

“Planning on exploring the wide world of silken garments Geralt? I know you’re a deft hand at stitches but I’m not sure the concept translates to textiles.” A starry expression stretched the bard’s face, “although you _would_ look ravishing in red, if we picked up some quality thread and needles, I’m sure I could figure out a sleep shirt or _something_.”

“What’s wrong with this shirt?"

“ _That_ is not a sleep shirt.”

“I can sleep in all my shirts.”

Throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation, Jaskier forfeited before it devolved into one of their petty semantic arguments that could span days.

Thankfully, the winter gear vendor had finally noticed them and was standing by eagerly, wares laid out on hastily constructed tables and racks. Jaskier looked through her stock of cloaks and considered a dark indigo felt cloak, the hood lined with what appeared to be gray rabbit fur. It’d cost roughly half of his remaining coin and he wanted to save enough to invest in a quality sleeping roll as well as some dry provisions, so he grudgingly laid it back down with a farewell pet to the fur. He nodded at a cheaper but much plainer hoodless light brown cloak, throwing it around his shoulders to assess the length and fit, passing over a handful of coins in return.

Pivoting to allow it to flare around his legs, he asked Geralt how he looked, adding, “You should be proud, looks like your dreary lectures of function over fashion are finally wearing off on me. Before the year’s out I’ll be clad head to toe in black leather.”

Geralt was looking judgmentally at him, face tense either in thought or constipation. It was difficult to tell sometimes.

“My dear Witcher, do we need to buy you some dried plums?”

A spark of amusement lit Geralt's eyes. “No need, already got a little shit following me around.”

Outwardly Jaskier spluttered, grievously offended, but the coiled spring of concern in his chest unwound just a bit more with the familiar banter.

Geralt shouldered past him to the stack of thick fabric, leafing through to pull out the indigo one Jaskier had been drooling over. Asking the vendor for the amount, he pulled out his own coin purse, plump with contract money from earlier, paying the difference. Tossing the luxurious cloak to Jaskier, he watched, mouth ticked upwards in amusement as the bard struggled to follow the exchange, mouth gaped slightly in surprise.

Ignoring the way his heart swelled with gratitude, Jaskier protested even as he folded the dull brown wool back into the pile and pulled the soft felt to his chest, petting the wonderfully silky fur. “You didn’t have to do that; I would have survived well enough with the other one.”

Shrugging offhandedly as he inspected some gloves, Geralt spoke. “Wanted to. Besides, _I_ might not have survived the whining when you lost your ears to frostbite.” Tossing the pair of gloves to the bard, a few more coins crossed palms.

Jaskier swallowed back that voice that demanded he refuse, uncomfortable with the undeserved kindness, backed by the insidious whisper that he was taking advantage of Geralt's generosity. That Jaskier was playing the role of someone worthy, wasting the other’s time and attention.

Clutching his new gear like a child with a soft toy, Jaskier inquired if there were any bedrolls in stock. From his vantage point he couldn’t see the puzzled, almost hurt, expression that clouded Geralt's face for a split second. He quickly selected a quality cloth-covered straw roll accompanied by a blanket, another stack of coins joined the shining heap.

They left the stall, Jaskier struggling slightly to carry everything before his pout achieved critical mass, the Witcher rolling his eyes and neatly fastening the bedroll onto his back harness.

Stopping at a few stalls offering preserved foods suitable for trail rations, Jaskier tuned out Geralt's insistence on the cheaper, tooth-chippingly-hard grain biscuits. Gathering much more palatable packets they both preferred – dried fruit, salted meat, and hard-rind cheese – his hand hovered for a brief second over a jar of preserved fish. He’d often eaten them growing up on the coast in Kerack, but they stank to high hell. The only time Jaskier had indulged around the Witcher, the grump had complained for _hours_ how he couldn’t even smell a rotfiend over the clinging stench. With a heartfelt sigh he abandoned it, headed to pay the shopkeeper for what they’d amassed.

An arm snaked around him and tossed the wax-sealed jar into the bag with the rest. Startled, Jaskier blinked at Geralt's forcibly stoic face. A smile crinkled the corners of the bard’s eyes, and he squeezed the other's forearm in thanks. Swearing to only eat it downwind and to chew a bouquet of mint after each bite, he was accosted by the tantalizing smell of baked goods wafting towards them. The basket they handed him - with the elderly baker’s reminder to return it or suffer the consequences – was nearly overflowing with the wide variety of rolls, tarts, and miniature pies.

Together they leaned against a nearby wall, taking advantage of an abandoned barrel as a makeshift table. Jaskier nibbled through a couple, watching as Geralt inhaled the remainder as if he were in a contest, internally smug that he’d gotten the Witcher to eat more than he’d ever purchase on his own. The bard felt warm and well fed, wrapped in his beautiful new cloak that was a _mite_ too warm for the weather – but he’d be damned if he were to take it off – and happily people-watching. He returned the basket as Geralt shook off the crumbs that covered every possible surface, as if a floury dust devil had passed through.

Heading back through the channel of stalls that lined the street, Jaskier was reminded of the shoddy state of his boots when he splashed in a puddle of what he _dearly_ hoped was mud. Geralt led the way to the nearest cobbler, this time Jaskier managed to beat him to the payment and walked out with a significantly more watertight pair of boots as well as a few pairs of woolen socks that Geralt had sneakily purchased while Jaskier was distracted. He once again bit back the feelings of guilt at the gift, that he was in a hole of debt he’d never escape, a stilted _thanks_ emerging instead.

Trotting over to the livestock pens, Jaskier began a staring contest with a goat that seemed to have a strange appetite for trousers as Geralt paused thoughtfully in front of the sparse selection of horses. Abandoning his attempts to best that impenetrably placid stare, Jaskier joined Geralt by the wooden fence.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of replacing Roach, the fair lady’s still in the best years of her life! You even try and we’ll run off together into the sunset.”

Geralt continued to study each horse, finally losing interest as none seemed to meet whatever criteria he’d had in mind. “Thinking of finding you a mount. Those boots aren’t good for walking in the best of times, let alone winter.”

Squinting, Jaskier tried to make sense of that. Prior winters he’d passed the claustrophobic months sheltered at Oxenfurt, a rich patron’s estate, or entertaining a court. He’d been under cover weeks before the roads froze over, with no need for warm socks let alone a horse. _Unless_.

They’d spoken about Kaer Morhen a glancing few times. Usually when Geralt when in the best mood possible following a successful contract, full of food, housed, and drunk. But it’d never graduated beyond bare details. Jaskier knew that Geralt had brothers, and someone who passed for a father figure. He knew Geralt traveled there when the weather turned bitingly cold and didn’t return until weeks after the last snow melted. He knew that it was in the Blue Mountains, which were only a couple weeks’ travel from their current location. He knew that’s where Geralt would reunite with Ciri and Yennefer.

He knew that he’d never been invited.

He wanted to refuse to hope. Hope had been nothing but cruel to him lately, better to have low expectations and be surprised than to have one’s heart broken with the regularity of a pendulum.

“Oh? And where would I be headed in the winter?” He caught Geralt's eyes as he turned. The thinly veiled plea was pathetic. If Jaskier was wrong he could only pray Geralt wouldn’t catch on to his train of thought, pity would only expose the bard’s fractures, crack him like ancient leather.

Geralt's thoughts were shielded behind his carefully crafted mask. “Do you have plans?”

The gravelly voice had no business sounding so sweet, it was downright unfair. Sucking in a quick breath, Jaskier smiled crookedly. “None my dear, I’m as free as a bird. Although a bird wouldn’t last long in this weather. A squirrel? No, those hibernate. Do squirrels hibernate, Geralt? You seem like you’d know.”

They bickered for a few minutes about migration and hibernation – turns out the frozen frog for whom an eight-year-old Jaskier had erected a tiny flower shrine was just asleep – Jaskier perusing the scant offerings of equestrian supplies, hoping to find a present for Roach.

Jaskier suddenly sprung away, aimed for a nearby table like an arrow loosed from the string. “Geralt! Oh sweet _Melitele_ have you ever anything so beautiful in your life?” He was transfixed, tilting the halter and matching reins back and forth to catch the light, playing off the silver cord braided into the leather. He paid, severely depleting his remaining funds, before holding it up for the Witcher’s inspection, frowning as he realized the man wasn’t next to him like he’d thought.

Catching sight of a flash of white and silver-studded black – no chance that armor was intended as camouflage like Geralt claimed, the damn thing glitters like a Toussaintian chandelier – Jaskier stopped dead after a single step.

Geralt was talking to a man. All Jaskier could catch was a glimpse of a dark head of hair and well-made clothing, but that was enough for his face to pale.

He stood in the edge of the flow of people, not even remotely registering the shoulders bumping into his own, the harsh insults commanding him to get out of the way.

Geralt shot back a rejoinder, lip curling, and Jaskier swore he could see the words _fuck_ and _bard_ form from his lips.

The same absent feeling from before had returned, distancing him from his body like a raft tethered to a boat. His hands were numb, despite how his knuckles whitened in a death grip around the thin leather. Buzzing filled his ears to reignite his faded headache, as if his racing thoughts had hatched into wasps that now angrily circled his skull, looking for a means of escape.

All Jaskier wanted was to continue basking in their serene autumn day, relax into the refreshingly cool air, daydream about being invited for a cozy winter in Geralt's home.

All he could do was explain. But gods, the longer it took Jaskier to lay out the story, the more it’d sound like a half-assed excuse for cheating, a cobbled together ruse.

In the end, Jaskier had no marks, no injuries – beyond what he’d done to himself with the rough washcloth, the raw skin still pulled with just about every movement. He hadn’t even fucking fought back, just laid there and taken it. What proof did he even have that he didn’t want it, that he hadn’t turned back to his _widespread reputation_ as everyone knew him? That conversation would go well.

 _Who? Oh, do you remember that man whose lap I was sitting on? Him. Well I didn’t want it, but he had a dagger. Injuries? No, none. Well, besides what I did to myself to cover up what happened. What’s that? I’ve jumped armed mercenaries with nothing but my bare fists? Well I_ tried _to refuse but he was rather insistent. Would make a good salesman that one. Why didn’t I tell you? Ehhhh I just figured it could wait._

And even if Geralt believed him, how was that better? Reminding the Witcher that he couldn’t go a second without falling into a pool of trouble, dragging anyone that tried to save him downwards to drown?

Feeling sick to his stomach, he swallowed the saliva rushing into his mouth, fought back against the pastries’ attempt to make a reappearance. The broad-shouldered black figure was parting the crowd, carving a path through to confront Jaskier. Straightening up, he braced himself for the verbal flogging that was sure to come.

Geralt stood in front of Jaskier for a mere second, giving him a once over and one hand drifted halfway as if to clasp his shoulder before dropping back to his side. “Let’s go.” He turned without another word; began to backtrack the route they’d taken to the inn.

Ah. Well. That was kind of him. Not wanting the crowd to witness Jaskier’s banishment. He trudged behind, the warm cloak doing nothing to combat how cold he suddenly felt as he spent the final few moments of their time together soaking in the comfort. Geralt needed the coin he'd spent on the clothes. Jaskier would keep them but promised himself he'd slip some money into a saddlebag to reimburse the Witcher.

The Witcher’s footsteps halted and Jaskier almost thudded into his back, not having paid attention to where they were. The brownstone of the inn rose in front of them, stables jutting out to one side.

“Do you need to stay? We’ll camp a few nights before reaching another inn.”

Jaskier stared without comprehending. “We will?”

“East along the Pontar, and north towards Ard Carraigh.” He looked unsure. “If you don’t have plans?”

Jaskier’s heart surged back to life. He could only assume was Geralt was still in the dark, that Jaskier’s paranoid conscience had been imagining things. As experienced as the man was at suppressing emotions, he wouldn’t just ignore a confrontation like that.

“Absolutely! I’ll pack and fetch the bags, no need for you to walk all the way to the room; you go ahead and tack Roach, I’ll meet you in the stables.” He ignored Geralt's bemused expression, whisking the offered key from his hand before whirling around, relaxing as he dropped the smile that’d begun to cramp his cheeks with the effort it took to keep it pasted on.

Hurrying inside the inn, he burst into the room, starting the quickest clean-up of his life. Shoving the dirtied clothes into his bag, he grabbed his lute and notebook, tucking the unclasped medallion into an inner pocket so it wouldn’t be lost.

He paused halfway to reaching for the vials of oil. Chiding himself for being weak, Jaskier ignored the tremor in his hands as he slid them to the bottom of his own bag. Heaving the saddlebags onto a shoulder, he dropped the keys at the front before jogging back to the stables.

They arranged the new supplies as best they could, balancing them on each side of the saddle so Roach wouldn’t be uncomfortable, and together they left town, following the path eastward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> \- Jaskier doesn't think he'll be believed about the rape  
> \- Jaskier thinks Geralt's abandoned him  
> \- Geralt accidentally hurt a child (don't worry they're fine)  
> \- Brief flashback to the rape  
> \- Geralt kinda sabotaged Jaskier's bedroll so they'd have to share is this a warning idk, dubconsent of bed sharing but no hanky panky  
> \- Jaskier has intrusive thoughts that he's unwanted/repulsive/undeserving  
> \- Jaskier believes he's taking advantage of Geralt's kindness  
> \- Jaskier has a brief panic attack when he sees someone he thinks might be Michal at the market  
> \- Jaskier continues to hide what happened from Geralt  
> \- Jaskier heads back to the inn room to clean up (and prevent Geralt from seeing)
> 
> Please let me know if anything should be added to this list or the tags


End file.
